The Dream.

I’m walking on a dark lane. There’s just enough light to see my way, and I look up to see a pale moon that seems to be watching me. Everything is still. The trees stand stark and inscrutable, and the features in the landscape form a snaking, meaningless mass that offers no prospect of rest. I want to rest, and yet I don’t. My legs ache, my breathing is shallow, and I can feel my heart palpitating rapidly inside my chest. But some sense tells me I mustn’t rest because, if I do, the darkness will deepen and leave me blind. I know I mustn’t rest until I reach one of the light places I can see in the distance. One is to my left, one to my right, and one straight ahead. They flash on and off; first there is one, then two, then three, then none, then two... and so it goes on.

I reach a house standing mysteriously alone in the dark wilderness. It glows slightly – a pale white – as though it should be brighter but the batteries are running low. All the windows are lighted, and indeterminate shapes move back and forth behind them. I look for a door that I can knock on, but there is none. Many windows, but no door. And so I walk on. The remaining lights continue to flash on and off, and they shift position so I get confused. Which way should I walk? I don’t know. Just keep walking. I keep walking, and wake up.

As far as I know, there was no dream. I made it up; it’s what storytellers do.

But there might have been.